Her smile freezes. Her eyes widen like she’s looking at a ghost she personally buried. The color drains from her face, and for a heartbeat she can’t speak.
“Ric… Ricardo?” she stammers.
Camila’s head lifts slowly, like a flower turning toward light. When she turns and sees you, her eyes go huge. Not with joy. With fear.
Because she doesn’t know what you’ve seen. She doesn’t know if this will make things worse for her later.
“Ricardo?” she whispers, and the name sounds like a question she’s afraid to ask.
You step closer, carefully, because you feel like the wrong movement might shatter her. You look at her hands, the raw knuckles, the soap-split skin. Your throat tightens so hard you can barely breathe.
“Why are you back here?” you ask, but the question is already a weapon.
Patrícia laughs too loudly, too fast. “Oh my God, surprise!” she chirps, eyes darting like a trapped animal. “We were just… you know… Camila likes helping. She insisted.”
You turn your head slowly toward Patrícia. Your voice is quiet when you speak, and that’s what makes it terrifying.
“You sent my wife to wash pans,” you say. “In my house.”
